Page 64 of Curse in the Quarter
Nineteen
The knock on Bastien’s study door came at precisely four o’clock, accompanied by the familiar sound of Delphine’s voice calling his name. He’d been expecting her—the text she’d sent that morning had mentioned she’d found something in Charlotte’s journal that might connect to his glyph research.
What he hadn’t expected was the way she entered his study carrying the worn leather volume, cradling it against her chest as if it were something precious rather than a historical artifact she’d discovered in the Archive’s collection. The late afternoon light streaming through his windows caught the golden highlights in her hair, creating a halo effect that reminded him painfully of Charlotte in candlelight.
“I hope you don’t mind me bringing this,” Delphine said, settling into the chair across from his desk. “I’ve been reading through it, and there are things in here . . . things that feel important. Connected to what we’ve been seeing with the glyphs.”
Bastien nodded, not trusting his voice. He couldn’t tellher that the journal she held contained intimate messages written for him across centuries, coded phrases that had once whispered secrets in the dark hours before dawn.
She opened the journal with the practiced motion of someone who had handled it countless times, though he knew she’d only discovered it days ago. Her fingers found the slight depression in the cover where a thumb had rested during years of use, stroking the leather with unconscious familiarity.
“I know this sounds strange,” she continued, her voice taking on that dreamy quality he’d learned to fear, “but reading Charlotte’s words feels like . . . like remembering something I’d forgotten. The way she thinks, the rhythm of her sentences . . .” She paused, looking up at him with curious eyes. “Does that make sense?”
Of course it made sense. She was reading her own thoughts, her own careful documentation of a love that had transcended death itself. Every elegant turn of phrase, every perfectly balanced sentence—they were hers, written in a lifetime she’d been forced to forget.
“The handwriting is beautiful,” she murmured, tracing one of the star-dotted letters with her fingertip. “Look at these flourishes on the capital letters. And the way she dots her i’s with little stars . . .”
The same delicate motion Charlotte had used when signing her name to love letters meant for his eyes only. Delphine’s touch lingered on the page as if the ink still held warmth from the hand that had shaped it.
She was describing her own handwriting. Bastien’s hands clenched into fists beneath his desk.
“Listen to this entry from 1762,” Delphine said, settling deeper into her chair. “It’s fascinating how she describes the estate’s protective wards.”
She began to read aloud, her voice taking on the rhythm and cadence that had once whispered secrets to him in the dark. “'The moonlight makes silver paths through the gardens tonight. I walked them thinking of how shadows can be gentle when cast by starlight rather than flame. B says the old magics recognize intention more than incantation, that love spoken in whispers carries further than power shouted from mountaintops.'”
Bastien’s chest constricted. Those weren’t random observations about magic—they were coded messages Charlotte had written for him, intimate communications disguised as journal entries. She’d developed the practice after they’d begun their secret courtship, when stolen moments weren’t enough and she needed to preserve their whispered conversations.
The memory of that particular night rushed back to him with painful clarity. Charlotte had returned from one of their midnight garden walks, her cheeks flushed with cold air and the secret thrill of forbidden love. She’d written that entry while he’d waited in the shadows outside her window, watching her record their conversation for posterity.
“'Love spoken in whispers,'” Delphine repeated, looking up at him with curious eyes. “She must have been quite the romantic. Do you think she was writing about someone specific?”
The irony was cruel. She was reading him love letters from herself, written in a lifetime she couldn’t remember, and asking if they were about someone else.
“Perhaps,” he managed, his voice rougher than he intended.
Delphine continued reading, oblivious to his distress. “'Today B showed me how the protective glyphs respond to emotion. He placed his hand over mine on the stone, and Ifelt the ancient inscriptions wake beneath our touch. He whispered that some bonds transcend individual lifetimes, that the most powerful magic comes from souls that recognize each other across centuries.'”
Each word was a knife. She’d written that entry the night he’d first explained reincarnation to her, when he’d tried to prepare her for the possibility that they might find each other again someday. The coded affection phrase she’d used—“souls that recognize each other”—had become their private way of saying “I love you” when others might overhear.
The locket at Delphine’s throat gave a subtle pulse of warmth, responding to the words she spoke. Bastien could see the faint glow through her shirt, growing stronger with each phrase that referenced their shared past.
“The way she writes about magic,” Delphine said, her fingers moving to touch the locket unconsciously. “It’s not like other historical accounts I’ve read. She talks about it as if it were alive, responsive to human emotion rather than just formulaic ritual.”
“Charlotte was ahead of her time in many ways,” Bastien said carefully. “Her understanding of the forces that shape our world was . . . unique.”
“‘The soul bound inscriptions,’” Delphine read on, “‘glow brightest when touched by those who’ve loved across multiple incarnations. B says such magic is rare, precious. I find myself hoping . . .’” She paused, squinting at the faded ink. “The rest is too blurred to make out clearly.”
Bastien closed his eyes. He remembered what the rest of that passage said:I find myself hoping we are such souls, that whatever comes, we’ll find each other again and again, lifetime after lifetime, until the stars themselves burn out.
“What do you think she hoped for?” Delphine asked, her voice soft with curiosity.
“What we all hope for,” he said, the honesty slipping out before he could stop it. “To be remembered. To matter. To leave something behind that proves we existed, that we loved, that our connections meant something beyond the brief span of a single lifetime.”
Delphine set the journal down gently, her expression thoughtful. The late afternoon light streaming through the study windows caught the golden highlights in her hair again and reminding him of Charlotte by candlelight, when they used to read together.
“Bastien, do you believe in echoes?”
The question caught him off guard. “What kind of echoes?”
